Untitled.

Anger and dread

rear their ugly two-faced head

as we resort to writing bad poetry

in childish desperation; adult too.

Now realising the attempt at rhyme

has failed abysmally

let us categorise this as a blotch of

ironic prose

smeared against a

non-existent page

and let us drop all restraint

and

begin

to

space

things as if

we have grammatical epilepsy

and

a

two-faced

head

which feeds on

desperation.